


The Winchester Home for Wayward Teens

by skylarkblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Questionable geography of the state of Colorado
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylarkblue/pseuds/skylarkblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angels fell two months ago and nobody knows what to do. Cas is missing, Kevin's depressed, and Sam and Dean are left trying to pick up the pieces. When Team Free Will is reunited they decide to start fixing the world, but instead they find there are more important things than saving a lost cause - things like love and family. Their home for wayward teens is born, but are any of them really cut out for parenthood?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prophet

It started with Kevin.

They gave him the keys to the bunker a few months prior, when his mother died, knowing that there was no way he’d being going back into the life he had now. It was best, Sam thought, they just let him come to terms with his grief in his own time and leave him alone to do it. Dean adhered to that, solely because Sam would pull a bitchface when he didn’t, but he had to admit it was damn annoying that the kid didn’t do anything. Sam said he was depressed. Dean agreed with him, but the way he saw it, after coming out of Hell he and Sammy had been damn depressed themselves – and moping all day had done fuck all to help it. The prophet needed to be outside, doing things, helping with the angel situation. He tried to broach the subject at the dinner table one evening; Kevin had gone quiet and retreated to his room. Sam pulled a bitchface. And after that, Dean didn’t press the matter again.

Until Kevin stormed out of his room one evening, visibly agitated, and demanded to know what the date was. He ran his hands through his hair, looking around the room, twitching. Dean was pretty sure the kid hadn’t showered in two days.

“Uh, it’s the third of January, two thousand fourteen.” He looked at Kevin closely, noting the way his hands shook as he pressed them to his mouth.

“Fuck,” Kevin said. “I’m nineteen.”

That was news to Dean. He figured he was probably still around seventeen, eighteen or so. He’d been a scrawny teenager finishing high school when they’d picked him up – though, now that he considered it, that had been two years ago. Year lost to Purgatory and all that. He frowned at the floor, thinking about it. And then: “Fuck, you are.”

“I missed my birthday. It was last month.” Kevin looked so stunned by this Dean felt the urge to make him sit down. He didn’t. “How did I miss my birthday? And Christmas. We didn’t…we didn’t do Christmas.”

At that he felt a stab of guilt. It was true; they hadn’t had Christmas, because he and Sam had been hunting a shtriga ( _fucking shtriga_ ) over in Missouri from the 23rd until the 26th. They’d left Kevin at home because he was – well, he was damn near useless. The angels had fallen back in November, and…things hadn’t exactly been easy. They still hadn’t found Cas ( _do not think about Cas_ ) and trying to keep the truth of what had happen within the hunter community was difficult, to say the least.

“Kevin,” he said, putting his book aside. Rereading Vonnegut had become a new in-between hunts pastime of his. “Let’s talk. Sit down.”

The prophet slumped down into the couch and gave him a familiarly vapid stare. He resisted the urge to sigh, instead leaning forward and wondering how he could word this without coming off like an ass. Deciding there was no way not to sound like an ass, he just went ahead and said it. “Buddy, you’ve got to pull yourself together. You haven’t done anything in the two months you’ve been here. You eat. You sleep. You shower when it suits you. You read the angel tablet if you feel like it. This has got to stop, dude, it’s not good for your health.”

He remained quiet while the younger man processed his words. Kevin snorted at him, rolled his eyes and replied, “Fuck you, Dean. My mom is dead. My girlfriend is dead. I don’t care about my health, or anything else, for that matter.”

Dean’s jaw was tight and his eyes narrowed. “My mom is dead. Sam’s fiancé is dead. My dad is dead. My uncle is dead. My best friend,” he felt his stomach drop, “Is probably also dead. People die, Kevin, and you can’t let that dictate your life.”

“Whatever. Your little intervention isn’t going to make me do shit.” He rose to leave the room and was stopped by Sam – all six foot, four inches of him – in his way. Sam raised his eyebrows and nodded back to the couch, where Kevin promptly sat, solely because out of the two Winchesters, Sam was just that bit more terrifying.

“Kevin, I want you to help me find the angels.” Sam folded his arms and made that face that looked like he wasn’t taking no for an answer. The three of them knew that when Sam said ‘the angels’ he meant one angel in particular, but nobody made any comment, just stared at each other in a tense silence. Eventually, Kevin snapped “fine”, and left to return to his room.

“Why does he listen to you?” Dean grumbled. Sam gave a bitter laugh.

“Maybe because I don’t treat him like a child?”

He had to admit that was true. Back before – before the falling, before everything – Dean had defaulted to treating the prophet as a solider, another one of them in the war of good and evil. But spending time with him had jolted Dean into the realisation that Kevin was still very young, only a little younger than Sammy had been when they’d started hunting Yellow Eyes, but without the hunter background. So he’d begun to treat him as such. Kind of like having another kid brother around, if that brother was in dire need of a shower and some actual food, not just chocolaty breakfast cereals and grilled cheeses.

Sam sighed at the look on Dean’s face and reached out to put one hand on his shoulder, a simple gesture of comfort. Dean nodded and looked up to his brother. “You feeling okay, Sammy?”

“Better than usual.” The trials had left Sam near comatose, and he still hadn’t quite recovered. He generally looked like death warmed over, and sometimes an eerie glow would pulse under his forearms. He’d improved and no longer slept eighteen hours a day, was even well enough to go on hunts, but something still wasn’t right. As if he could detect Dean’s train of thought, he tugged at the sleeves of his shirt and moved away; he’d taken to wearing only long sleeves when they realised the power was still within him and still glowed at times. They shared a look before Sam said, “I’m gonna go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

* * *

Dean decided it was high time he actually did something about Kevin. So, at some ungodly hour (it was six-thirty, closer to his usual bedtime than time to get up), he rapped on the door of Kevin’s room, gulping down coffee.

“What?” The younger man snapped as he pulled it open. Dean only grinned.

“Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen. I made breakfast, then we’re goin’ somewhere.”

The door was slammed in his face. He took that to mean Kevin would meet him in the kitchen, so he walked back down to said kitchen and busied himself making French toast, adding a dash of cinnamon and serving it up just as the prophet joined him. He was wearing a rumpled shirt that may or may not have come from his bedroom floor paired with jeans that definitely had. He sat in his chair morosely and ate his toast without so much as a thank you. Dean didn’t take it personally.

“Where are we going?” He asked eventually, taking the glass of juice Dean handed him and swallowing it quickly. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and grabbed another slice of toast.

“Out,” was the reply. When they were both finished they walked outside, Kevin avoiding his eyes. The air was sharp with chill and the two of them hurried to the Impala’s warmth. The drove in silence as Dean navigated the roads to Lebanon with ease. It almost surprised him that this trip was comfortable now, that he knew the way with such effortlessness. He killed the engine when they pulled up to the curb, near a local herbal shop that sold a couple of legitimate hunter things without knowing it, but directly in front of the doctor’s office.

“No,” Kevin said, glaring at the sign through the window.

“Yes,” Dean replied, getting out of the car and walking around to pull open Kevin’s door. “Come on.”

“Dean,” it was nearly a whine. Dean ignored it and prodded him towards the doors. “Dean. I don’t want to do this.”

“You know, I’m glad you picked up why we’re here so quickly,” he said conversationally, pushing him into the building. They approached the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist was a bubbly looking girl with very curly hair only a few shades darker than her skin. She grinned at them and handed Dean a clipboard when he said it was their first time here. He passed it back to Kevin, who took it and glared at it with all the strength he could muster.

“You gonna fill that out, or you want me to do it?”

He got a glare in reply as Kevin lifted his pen and started scribbling on the page. There was only one other person sitting in the waiting room, a middle-aged man in a suit tapping away on his smartphone. Kevin finished with the three sheets of medical information and handed it back to Dean, who took it back up to the receptionist with a smile. He then settled back in beside Kevin, who had turned pale. “Dean,” he said, “What do I say?”

“Tell the truth,” he shrugged, like it was obvious.

“That my mom and girlfriend were killed by an evil demon who wanted to harness my prophetic abilities to rule the world?”

“Not that truth. Just that your mom and girlfriend died not far apart, and you haven’t been well since.”

They were getting an odd look from the suited man, but he was called into the doctor’s office soon after. Kevin seemed to be hyperventilating. Dean clapped him on the back and he jumped, staring up at the older man with wide eyes.

“Kevin, listen. It’s totally okay. They’re not gonna make you go to a shrink or anything if you don’t want to.”

Whatever reply Kevin had was cut short as the man in the suit walked out and the doctor called his name. Instead he gave Dean a blank stare, making him sigh and pull the prophet up by the sleeve of his jacket. “Do you want me to come?”

He nodded. Dean followed him into the small room and hung back, watching as the doctor – a sharp-looking woman with blonde hair and glasses who reminded him vaguely of Naomi – shook Kevin’s hand and invited him to sit in one of the two chairs. After a moment he sat beside Kevin and folded his arms, inspecting the doctor and kind of wishing he had some holy water on him. Old habits died hard.

“So, Kevin,” she said, all manner of businesslike, “What can I do for you?”

“I – uh. I think…” Kevin looked at Dean, who gave him an encouraging nod. “My girlfriend died last January and my mom died in October and I haven’t really gotten over either of them and I can’t sleep and I sort of don’t want to be alive.”

The doctor – her nameplate said it was Dr Miller – smiled at him kindly. “Sounds to me like depression, but you probably already knew that.” When he didn’t reply, she looked down at the clipboard they’d handed the receptionist, browsing the pages, before asking him a couple more questions about his diet and sleeping habits and whether or not he felt anxious. When he said he didn’t, she made a note on one of the sheets, and then took out what looked like a prescription pad.

“I’m going to refer you to a psychologist in Center and start you off on a drug called Sinequan, okay? You’ll take one every night before bed, preferably with food, and feel some tiredness during the day for the first week or two, but after a month that should be gone and it should start to come into effect. If it doesn’t, you just have to pop by and let me know.” She smiled again, signing off on a piece of paper and handing it over. Kevin nodded numbly.

“There any side effects?” Dean asked. The doctor turned her sharp gaze onto him.

“And you are?”

“A concerned friend.” He narrowed his eyes and watched her. She looked between him and Kevin before saying, “He may experience some headaches and nausea in the first two weeks,” to which Dean replied with a simple “thank you”.

Kevin nodded, reading over the two pieces of paper in his hand. One, as she had said, was a referral to a psychologist, with a brief outline of his symptoms and the number for him to call. The other was in typical doctor chicken scratch, but still just readable enough to make out the name and dosage. He sighed and looked over at Dean.

“Thanks, doc,” Dean said as they stood to go, shaking her hand. Her grip was tight and her smile seemed fake. He decided to only come to this particular practice when the other doctor was on duty, because for whatever reason, this one didn’t seem to like him.

Afterwards the two of them sat in the front seat of the impala, Dean revving the engine as Kevin buckled his seatbelt. He turned to stare at the boy before glancing down to the papers sitting in his lap. As he steered the car out onto the road, he glanced down at them once more before asking, “If we get them, will you take them?”

“I’ll try them.”

“You can’t just start and stop them, kid.”

“Says the man that takes aspirin with a shot of whiskey.”

Dean had to hand it to him. He had a point.

“Yeah, well, when you’re on these, you can’t drink. And you gotta go to bed at a reasonable hour – and get up, too. They’re meant to help you get back into a pattern as well as settle everything down, you know? Anyway,” he continued as they pulled up at the pharmacy, “like anything, they’ll help if you let them.”

Kevin was silent a moment, studying Dean with a near-uncomfortable scrutiny. Eventually he asked, “How do you know so much about this stuff?”

“Uh, when I was – when Sammy left for college. Things got rough for a while. So I, uh…I went on something like them. And...they, well…yeah.” and he didn’t have to finish, because Kevin got it. Dean took the prescription and got out of the car, telling him to stay put, he’d be right back, before disappearing into the nondescript white building with _HUBBLE FAMILY PHARMACY – CATERING TO LEBANON’S NEEDS SINCE 1953_ written across the window in wide blue letters, painfully Midwest. He leaned back into his seat and stared out the window, thinking that he had been given a chance here and that, perhaps, it was time to take it.

He realised with a jolt he wanted to. He was sick of hating everything, hating himself, and mourning for two people he would never see again. Most would just move on with their lives after so many months, slowly and surely, but grief had consumed him to the point where he wasn’t seeing an end. He was stuck in a black tunnel without as much as a pinprick of light at the end. And that was okay. That was normal even, for a while. But it was time to stop, to try and move on with his life – not that he hadn’t tried before, but just the task of getting out of bed seemed colossal sometimes. Reading the angel tablet pained him. Now it felt like he had some kind of purpose at least. Getting better.

As Dean climbed back into the car and passed over to him a small brown paper bag, a rather uncomfortable thought occurred to him. Maybe, he thought, the only reason Dean was doing this wasn’t because he wanted to help Kevin. Maybe it was because he wanted a functioning prophet. A functioning prophet meant someone to read the angel tablet. Someone to read the angel tablet meant the possibility of finding Castiel and reversing the fall of Heaven.

After a moment of thought, he found he didn’t really mind what Dean’s motives were. What mattered was someone cared.

“You good?” The man asked, gunning the engine. Kevin looked past him, to the pharmacy, where a younger woman was tidying up the window display. They’d be out of Lebanon and back at the bunker soon. He could help Sam with the archives. He could decide what they had for lunch for once – not that he didn’t like Dean’s cooking, but the man only knew like, four recipes. If he had another hamburger he’d cry.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”


	2. The Spell

Sam prised another leather-bound volume from the shelf, nose twitching at the dust cloud that invaded his breathing space. He managed to turn away from the books just in time to sneeze what he considered to be the greatest sneeze that was ever sneezed.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean’s voice came from behind him. “You trying to blow down the bookshelves?”

“Shut up, Dean.” His eyes were watering as he sneezed again. His brother tossed him a box of tissues, one of the many they’d acquired since work on the Men of Letters library had begun. Everything was meticulously organised, for which Sam was thankful, but the sheer number of years it had all spent without anyone around had left the books covered in a fine layer of dust. Sam was systematically going through them, making a list of each book they had so he could later type it up and add it to their list of resources – it would be a lot easier to find helpful books straight away than having to go through shelf after shelf of semi-relevant material to find something that would actually help.

He flipped open the book, ignoring the cup and plate his brother had set down on the table. It was Dean’s singular mission in life to feed everyone, or so it seemed since they’d gained a kitchen. He’d even made friends with the little old woman at the fruit market. Last week he’d made her an apple pie. It was sickeningly domestic.

“What’re you looking at?” Dean was hovering, looking over his shoulder at the book. Sam huffed and looked up at him.

“I haven’t exactly had a chance to look at it properly,” he said, pushing the plate away as he sat the book down. He skimmed the first few pages with a considering frown, tilting his head as he flipped the pages filled with a spiky, masculine scrawl. The date at the top of a page read _17 th May, 1858._

“So? What is it?”

“It’s a journal. Get this – _Today I went and saw that fool Samuel Colt. He says that the demon activity in this area has been increasing because of what happened the other evening, and asked that I leave…I do not believe he is right.”_

“What happened?” Dean was curious, leaning closer as his brother flipped back four pages. The writing was even messier here, with a dark stain on the paper that looked suspiciously like it may have once been blood. Sam’s frown deepened as he scanned the page. “Sammy?”

“ _A great storm occurred this evening…light flew down from the sky and struck the bodies of men, and they were then different, not knowing who they were…one assured me ‘he asked for this’, but I doubt this is true…the storm only worsened afterwards, and I was struck by lightning, though it did not burn as one could expect lightning to. The men who were no longer the men they were tried to take me, but I fought them off in spite of my earlier injury. Those black-eyed bastards appeared soon after…I must be leaving here. I will go west, to Colt and Campbell…they will know what to do.”_

Sam closed the book and stared up at Dean. Dean stared back. The silence was palpable.

“Do you think he meant Campbell like…our Campbells? And, well. We know Samuel Colt.”

He laughed. “Yeah, Dean. I think that would be one of our Campbells. But…by the looks of it…I think this is the diary of a prophet. The men who were no longer the men they were – that’s got to be angels. And, well, the demons.”

“Diary of a prophet…” Dean picked up the book, flicking through a few pages. “I thought Chuck was the first prophet in, like, a thousand years. Guess not.”

“Guess not,” Sam repeated as the book was tossed back onto the table. He tried not to flinch. Dean knew he hated the books being mishandled and would often purposely do it on more hardy copies just to piss him off. He put the book aside and finally took the plate of food offered to him, watching the book as he ate. He would love to sit down and read the whole thing, start to finish – the diary of a prophet had to be something the Men of Letters kept for a reason. But sadly, he had a library to finish organising, and a hunt to go on. There was a haunting down in Wichita. They were leaving later in the afternoon.

“Here,” he said, passing his still half-full plate to his brother. Dean accepted it with a shrug, always happy to have more food. Sam wiped his hands and reached over for the book, carrying it with him to the room down the hall. With a deep breath he knocked at the door, not expecting a reply – it was before twelve, and Kevin was rarely up before one.

To his surprise, there was an uncertain “Yeah?” from the other side. He opened the door and peeked in before stepping into the room. It was untidy, dirty clothes spilling out of the wardrobe, bedcovers covering more of the floor than the bed, stacks of books surrounding them. Kevin was sitting cross-legged on his bed, open laptop cradled in his arms.

“Hey,” Sam said, suddenly unsure. The prophet blinked up at him, setting his laptop aside and giving the older man his full attention.

“Is something wrong? Have you found something about…you know?” He didn’t have to say the name, but they both knew he was referring to Cas. Sam shook his head and held up the book.

“I found something you might be interested in. Diary of a prophet from the mid-eighteen hundreds.”

Kevin held out one unsteady hand to take it, flicking open the worn cover with ease. He frowned at the untidy scribble within and looked back to Sam. “You want me to read it?”

“If you want to.”He shrugged, leaning against the doorframe and folding his arms, giving Kevin an easy smile. “You feeling better?”

“Yeah.” Kevin went quiet, browsing the first few pages as Sam watched him. After a couple of minutes he looked up again to see the hunter looking over his room with a furrowed brow. He glanced over the mess. It needed to be cleaned, at least somewhat, within the next few days. He should have really tidied the books at least.

His eyes fell to where the angel tablet sat at his desk, the smooth stone tablet covered in glyphs and markings only he could translate. He had found something, last night, but still was unsure if it was worth telling the brothers about. In the months since the Fall of Heaven he had largely ignored his duty as prophet. But in the past two weeks he had scoured the stone for anything that could help without telling them about it, because there was nothing – literally nothing – in there that concerned restoring an angel’s wings. But the evening before he had come across a section that described how to summon an angel that was too injured to fly, detailing the Enochian symbols and spell around it. He thought – he hoped – that it would be able to bring Castiel to the bunker. It was their only shot so far.

“Dean and I are going on a hunt,” Sam broke the silence. “We’re leaving in about an hour. We’ll be back tomorrow night if it goes well.”

“Haunting?” Kevin asked, getting a nod in reply. He leaned back into the pillow propped up on the bedhead and curled his legs beneath him, prising the book open. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Sam nodded briefly and moved away, closing the door behind him. Kevin was better; it was obvious just from looking at him. But there was still a long way to go.

When he returned to the main room of the bunker, he found Dean looking over several shotguns and packing ammunition into a grey duffel bag. Wordlessly he grabbed the bag of rock salt by the wall and passed it over to his brother, glancing at the shotguns as he did so. He could see why Dean was puzzling over them; there was only room in the bag for two, but they could all prove themselves to be necessary, for varying reasons. He grabbed the bolt-action Remington and handed it to him. Dean nodded in agreement and placed it in the bag after checking it was unloaded.

“This hunt gonna be much trouble?” He asked. Dean shook his head.

“Salt and burn,” Dean grinned. Sam couldn’t help but smile.

* * *

 

The graveyard was almost a stereotype. Weathered grey stones were cracked and crumbling, spotted through the dirt and weeds in no particularly discernible pattern, though perhaps once they had been in even rows. There was a vicious wind ripping through the trees and causing a great whining sound, chilling anyone around.

The two brothers were in a grave, digging their shovels through the soft dirt and shifting it away. There were already several feet down; they’d been at work for hours. The ghost was a really pissed off vengeful spirit whose still-living boyfriend had gone and – oh the horror – begun dating her former best friend. Given that the evidence pointed to said boyfriend actually having been the one to kill her, Dean could understand her rage, but after she’d shoved him into a mirror he had since had a lot harder time sympathising.

A solid thud sounded as the tip of Sam’s shovel struck the lid of the coffin. He breathed a sigh of relief and begun to clear away the dirt from atop the lid as Dean climbed out and reached for their bag. Reaching down, he hauled Sam out of the pit and the two began the familiar routine of salting the corpse, careful not to move from the ring of salt they’d placed around the grave. It had been Kevin’s idea, to salt around the graves before digging. They had to admit it made things easier.

The younger brother struck a match and dropped it in, grinning as the flames took up with a whoosh. They leaned closer to the fire. Both were grateful for the warmth, given the brisk wind currently raging.

“You want to head back to the motel, or d’you think we ought to go home and keep Kevin company?”

“May as well head home,” Sam replied. Dean nodded, packing the bag back up and kicking the salt into the dirt so this particular grave desecration didn’t look quite so creepy. The fire below them had died down, licking at the coffin wood but no longer burning the body.  He glanced at the shovel for a second before sighing and picking it up to knock most of the dirt back into the grave. She’d been a nasty son of a bitch, but really, the girl didn’t deserve to have her body’s resting place left like they’d left others.

The drive home was quiet, without so much as half-hearted brotherly ribbing.  They stopped briefly at a Biggerson’s that was open 24 hours to grab a couple of cheeseburgers, Sam chucking fries at Dean as he drove. Dean grumbled and picked a couple out of his lap to eat them, rolling his eyes and muttering something about Sam being an immature brat. At that he stuck his tongue out, shoving another handful of food in his mouth. It felt good, easy, to be like this again. Almost like there was no King of Hell locked in their basement or weird power flowing through Sam’s veins.

It only took a couple of hours to get back to the bunker. The sky was lightening to the east, and they were both the usual kind of sore and gritty that came from a salt-and-burn. Sam figured a nice cup of tea and a shower was in order; Dean would likely just strip and throw himself down in bed the moment they got home.

It took Dean by surprise to found the lights still on when they walked in. He looked around dropping the keys on the table by the door and kicking off his boots as Sam walked to the kitchen. Kevin wouldn’t have left the lights on unless he was still awake, but the chances of the kid being up before six? Unlikely. He followed Sam to the kitchen and took the mug offered to him, and that was when they heard the muffled swearing from the next room. They shared a look before each putting their drinks down, Dean immediately tensing up as they walked down the hall and heard it again, slightly louder.

Kevin was kneeling on the floor, a complicated series of Enochian symbols drawn in front of him. A small dish of blood sat at his left side with a soaked bandage tied tightly around his forearm. The angel tablet lay discarded at his feet. Several pages of notepaper sat atop it.

He didn’t look up when they came in, instead dipping his fingers into the blood and scribbling another line of symbols below the first, smearing his hand in the liquid before slamming it down onto the sigil. He swore again, reaching over for the pages of notes, uncaring if they were marked by his blood.

Dean cleared his throat. “Kevin?”

The boy jumped, turning to frown at them, one hand coming up to cover the bandage around his arm awkwardly. “You’re back early.”

He ignored the guilty look on the prophet’s face, instead staring down at the mess of blood on the floor. Dean wasn’t familiar with Enochian, but the sigil in the middle – handprint and all – looked familiar. Not quite like a banishing sigil, but somewhat similar. Sam, however, _was_ more familiar with the angel’s language and stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s not working, is it?”

“I’ve tried four times now.” He sounded on the verge of tears, so frustrated with both himself and the magic that he wanted to cry. “I can’t understand it, I’m following what it says exactly.  The Enochian’s right. It’s his name. There are only two ways it wouldn’t be working –“ here his voice shook as he stared up at Dean. “If – if he’s not an angel, or if he’s…”

He trailed off, giving the older man a pained look. It suddenly clicked for Dean and he leaned in the doorframe, folding his arms tightly, his eyes narrowing into a glare. “You trying to summon Cas?”

“It’s not working.” Kevin shifted, lifting his hand to rub at his eye, trying to avoid eye contact. It left a smudge of red on his brow. The movement made the bandage on his arm darken again. Dean took a breath, and another, trying not to hyperventilate.

“Dean.” Sam was reaching for him now, but he pushed him away, shaking his head. He backed off immediately, giving Dean the space he needed. “Dean, there’s still a chance-“

“What chance?” Dean snapped. “He’s dead. It doesn’t matter.” He stormed away, slamming the door shut behind him. There was a thud from the other side. They were both pretty sure he’d punched it.

Sam let him go, kneeling beside the prophet and untying the bandage. The cut on his forearm was long, about a quarter inch wide, and maybe twice as deep. He huffed, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work.” Kevin sounded dejected, not meeting his eye, just short of pulling his arm away.

Sam sighed and rubbed his forehead. “It’s okay, Kevin. Come on, let’s get this stitched up.”

Kevin sat perfectly still as he carefully sanitised and stitched the wound, not even flinching when the needle dug into his skin. It had mostly stopped bleeding and only required three stitches, but still, it concerned Sam. There was blood all on the floor and though the dish had been shallow, there was still at least two tablespoons worth of blood in the bottom. When he was done he looked over the wound again, checking the stitches were all tied off and would allow for removal in a couple of days, before letting Kevin’s arm go. The prophet scratched near to it, wrinkling his nose. “They itch.”

“Means it’s healing,” Sam said simply. “I don’t want you to do that again, okay? If you’re going to use blood magic, let me or Dean know first.”

“Is Dean angry at me?” he asked, his voice flat. He didn’t quite meet Sam’s gaze. The fact that the summoning spell hadn’t worked, no matter how many times he’d tried it – and he had tried and tried, he really had – was itching under his skin more than the neat stitching. The failure weighed heavily on him, pricking at his eyes and making it hard to breathe. Back in his advanced placement days failure had meant ruining any chance he had at a good future, and every low mark or bad score he’d gotten then he had sorely punished himself for, staying up for days studying until he got it right. But this, magic, was not something one studied for. And he _had_ gotten it right. Just the subject of it was no longer accessible by its means. He kept reminding himself of this, but it did nothing to quell the ache of failure, of failing Dean and failing to find the angel.

“He’s not angry at you,” Sam replied firmly. “Come on, let’s get you some juice and a sandwich, and you can go to bed. Did you take your medication?”

Kevin nodded numbly, taking the hand Sam offered him and using it to pull himself from the floor. His jeans were stained with red that was quickly turning stiff and brown. Brushing off his hands, he followed the taller man to the kitchen, where he was promptly handed a glass of orange juice. He gulped it down quickly. A square of bread smothered in peanut butter followed it, and he found his head clearer. Sam was still looking at him in that frowning concerned way he hated.

“I’m okay,” he said. Sam nodded, reaching over to pat his back gently. “I’m going to sleep. Goodnight.”

Sam echoed him, saying “goodnight”, although it was now nearing six o’clock in the morning. The prophet walked away to his room, and Sam sighed again, sitting down at the table. After a few seconds he let his head rest on the wood and closed his eyes. He was exhausted. He felt dirty and tired and he wanted a damn shower, but mostly he just wanted to sleep. He could hear Dean down in the front room, their little living room of sorts, sobbing. Every few seconds he would quieten down before taking another deep, shuddering breath and crying again. He knew better than to try and comfort his brother; when Dean was like this, he just needed to be left alone. And it wasn’t like he too wasn’t gutted over Castiel’s apparent death. He was. Cas was a good friend, part of their family. And the idea that he was gone…gone forever, gone for good…that could be coped with tomorrow. For now, he wanted to sleep.

Before heading off to his bed, Sam stopped to check on Dean. He was lying on the couch, covering his face with his hands, obviously trying to get his breathing under control. For a moment it seemed like he’d done it until he moved his hands away, taking another of those shuddering breaths, tears rolling down his cheeks. Sam let him be. Dean didn’t need his brother right now; he needed Cas.

But Cas wasn’t coming. Cas was never coming again.


	3. The Fallen

Colorado was cool for mid-January, making his worn grey hooded jacket and casual jeans insufficient for keeping him warm. Though they had been sufficient enough, as he travelled nearer the mountains, the temperature dropped increasingly. It had been a month and still they wandered through this state, making their way slowly but surely to Kansas.

He worried her cardigan and tights weren’t warm enough. She assured him again that they were.

They picked their way through this small gas station store, her light fingers swiping things from the shelves and dropping them into her pockets so quickly that he barely noticed it, even knowing what she was doing. He felt another pang of guilt at this heathenness; stealing was not his forte, though he needed the food. He supposed heathen behaviour could be expected of him, now. After all, he had no wings, no grace, and no power. He was painfully human.

His little sister, who was currently being her awkward brand of flirtatious with the checkout attendant, was not. Her wings had been stripped when she had fell from heaven, but grace burned within her, diminished but still strong. With a sugar-sweet smile she handed the attendant several dollars for the fuel their vehicle required. The man took it, eyeing her appreciatively; it made him narrow his eyes and reach out to grasp her shoulder with care, his entire body language telling the other man to back off. She looked over to him, the smile dropping from her face, and leaned into his shoulder.

As they left the store, she placed her hand in his, squeezing it tightly. He kissed her forehead before they climbed into the car. His little sister. She was around four million years younger than him, a small age gap as far as Heaven was concerned, but he remembered her as a fledgling. She’d been awkward even then, with clumsy too-white wings and an eager smile, excited to create and learn. She still had that habit even now. On their long car trip she’d taken up drawing in a pad of art paper stolen from a dollar store with a pencil found in the car’s glove box. She enjoyed it, and he enjoyed viewing some of the beautiful images she captured. She certainly had an eye for it.

“Castiel?” She asked, looking up from the drawing she was currently working on. “What if the Winchesters do not like me?”

“They will like you, little sister,” he assured her with a kind smile. There were several more moments of silence as he pulled onto the highway. And then –

“Brother, I’m scared.”

“I know.” It was true. In all honestly, he was scared too. Navigating this human world had been hard enough as an angel, but now that he was human, it felt impossible. The two of them had a decent façade going on, but he couldn’t escape the sinking feeling many of them could still tell the two of them were not…right. Not of this world. They’d been working on it, appropriate eye contact, personal space, things which were ordinary conversation, things which were…not.

For example, “I hope you are aware your husband is only cheating on you because he wishes you would talk to him more,” was not ordinary conversation, or an appropriate thing to say. Pulling Hael out of that one had been…interesting, to say the least.

“How near are we to Kansas?” She asked, putting her drawing down. It was another of his profile; she had little else to draw, as they rarely stayed in one place long enough for her to capture something exactly. Like the others, it was near photorealistic, shaded perfectly and drawn with near, clear lines.

“Another day or two, perhaps. It has only taken this long due to the arduous nature of the first weeks. We’re nearing Denver. From there it will be straight on to Lebanon.”

“Yes,” she responded, returning to her drawing.

Their trip had largely been quiet so far. They didn’t speak often, outside of questions or the occasional story. When Castiel tired, they stopped the car and he could sleep in the back while she kept watch in the front. When he was hungry, they would find a gas station and Hael would shoplift for him. They had a system in place, one that required few actions and fewer words. It was easy. They liked it.

At night, upon stopping, before he slept they would sometimes talk quietly, speaking of Heaven and their siblings, some still screaming for vessels, for brothers and sisters, for help. They kept their ears out of tune with angel radio, but sometimes it would sneak up to them, screaming and crying and begging for assistance.

His name came up often. Hael, bless her, did not ask why. She knew what the host thought of him and his actions. He had given her the bare minimum of the story – Metatron had been jealous and thrown them all out of Heaven so he could enjoy it for himself. She had been in awe of Metatron’s name, and of him, for to meet Metatron, to meet Joshua, to meet the four Archangels – Castiel was certainly high-up in Heaven’s ranks. Or what had been left of its ranks, after the Second War.

That night they sat side by side in the gravel of a Colorado back-road, sharing a bottle of water and watching the stars. Hael’s drawing pad was at her side, pencil atop the page, awaiting her to return to the sketch of the landscape. Castiel had rolled up his sleeves to enjoy the brisk night air, taking deep breaths and staring at the sky, a small smile at his face.

Hael curled up, laying her head on his shoulder and playing with the hem of her mustard coloured jacket, searching the stars as though they could answer any question she had. Cas knew she was thinking of Heaven. He reached down and placed his hand over hers.

“Are you alright?”

She took her head off his shoulder, looking at him with wide blue eyes. She nodded uncertainly and looked away. “I am…tired. And I don’t know why.”

His heart ached for her. Though her grace was still intact, it weakened a little more every day, and it was beginning to take its toll. “Perhaps tonight,” he told her quietly, “you should sleep, and I will keep watch.”

“I would not ask that of you.”

“You aren’t asking. I am offering.”

After several moments, she nodded again, and he stood to offer a hand down to her. She took it and looked at him with wide eyes. He realised she was afraid of something as foreign and human as sleep. It had been hard for him too, at first, and still he was plagued by dreams of Metatron leering down at him, pulling out his grace slowly. It hadn’t been agony, not like the stories Anna had told of ripping out hers, but it had hurt.

He opened the back door and she climbed within, laying across the seat and mimicking the position she had observed him take, pillowing her head on one arm. He closed it behind her and moved to the front of the car, an angel blade in each hand, both hers and his. There should be no trouble. No angel had bothered them in their month-long road trip through the state.

“Castiel,” she opened her eyes and peered at him. “Would you tell me a story?”

“What would you like to hear?” He smiled. It was a childlike request, coming sleepily from her mouth, but he was glad for her to ask.

“Tell me of Heaven.”

He fell silent as he thought. Then, he told her of their home, of hosannas and hallelujahs sung to the many skies of Heaven. Of the joy that was so beautiful to witness in souls finding their solace in slices of paradise, of souls reunited after death. Of their siblings, Anabiel, Ezekiel, Ariel, Noel, and the many adventures that had been had in the days before humanity. He told her of learning to fly. She listened intently, her eyes drooping gradually, and when he was telling her of the Garden of Eden her steady breathing told him she had fallen asleep.

Cas smiled to himself, pulling the blades closer to his chest and watched her before turning his attention to the outside. He would give her several hours before waking her. He wanted to be on the road before sunrise. By his estimation, if they drove without stopping, they would be in Lebanon late the next afternoon. He was eager to see Dean again, and to see if Sam was alright. And the prospect of introducing them to his sister pleased him – it would be his proof not all his siblings hated him, that it would be safe for him to go out into the world and assist them.

He stretched his legs across the two seats and watched the windows, counting off the time slowly. Hours passed without incident, but at a time close to the dawn, Hael sat up quite suddenly, her eyes teary. She babbled at him in Enochian, and he reached over, taking her hand and holding it tight, giving her a soothing reply. His human tongue stumbled around the Enochian clumsily, and he could no longer split his voice into some of the necessary octaves, but she understood and slumped against the seat.

“I’m sorry. I dreamed of falling,” she told him softly. He shook his head and ran his fingers down her cheek, tilting her head up.

“You have nothing to apologise for. Do you wish to return to sleep, or…?”

She shivered. “Can we drive?”

Wordlessly he started the car, letting her clamber into the passenger seat and buckle her seatbelt. She picked up her sketchbook from where he had put it on the floor the night before and hugged it to her chest. He pressed his foot to the accelerator and pulled out onto the road.

They made good time, passing over the Colorado-Kansas border before midday. They pulled to the side of the road to check the map again, and Hael used her pencil to sketch out the roads they wanted to take. With that they were back on the road, the younger angel watching the scenery, her sketchbook ignored in her lap. Their tension increased the further they travelled. It had taken so long to get through Colorado, and here they were, barely an hour out from the Winchester brothers.

As they drove into Lebanon, Hael squeezed his hand. He looked over to her.

“Are you ready for this, Castiel? Are you not afraid the Winchesters will be angry with you?”

“I have faith,” he explained, turning his gaze back to the town. “I have faith in the brothers. Dean may be angry, but he…he will be pleased to see me, I hope.”

As he made the turn towards the bunker, he took in a deep breath. He did not release it until they had pulled up to the door. As he turned off the engine, he stared at the steps leading down to the door before looking away and unbuckling his seatbelt.

When three minutes had passed and he had not moved to open the door, Hael hesitantly asked if he was sure if he wanted to this – there was still time for them to leave and find somewhere else to go. He shook his head and reached for the door handle, stepping out of the car and letting it slam shut behind him. Hael was at his side a moment later, hanging back as she looked over the door. She was afraid to meet the Winchesters, the men who stopped the Apocalypse, who killed the Leviathan, who defeated the Mother of All. They had killed angels and demons alike. They had been the skins of Archangels. They had gone to Hell and back.

They were very capable of killing her.

Castiel took a deep breath and reached forward to slam his fist against the bunker’s metal door three times. He stood back, his little sister placing a hand against his arm. The physical contact was a comfort, but he was nervous, feeling as though something was chewing at his stomach. After a minute the door swung open, and he found himself face-to-face with Dean.

A myriad of emotions crossed the older Winchester’s face. After a moment he settled on anger and something was thrown into his face, and then again into Hael’s. As they stood there, Cas spluttering and coughing and trying to clear holy water from his nose, Hael wiping it from her face with an undignified expression, Dean seized his arm and drew a silver blade across it. It hurt, but his flesh did not give the reaction sought, and neither did Hael’s. Hael pressed her hand against the cut on his arm to heal it before doing the same to hers.

At that Dean stared at them.

He said, “Castiel, you son of a fucking bitch,” and Cas found himself in Dean’s arms, the life being squeezed out of him.

“Hello, Dean,” he whispered. Dean’s face was pressed into his neck, and his grip only tightened, holding onto him as hard as he could.

When he was released, both his shirt and the other man’s face were wet. Dean pulled away and wiped at his eyes, smiling and laughing softly. “It’s good to see you, man. We thought…we thought you were…”

Seemingly unable to finish the sentence, he turned instead to Hael, offering his hand. She stared down at it with a puzzled expression before looking up to Castiel. He lifted her wrist and placed her hand in Dean’s, and Dean shook it.

“This is my sister, Hael.”

“Dean Winchester,” he grinned at her before turning to Cas and embracing him again. Cas returned the hug, realising with sudden clarity just how much he had missed Dean. They were pulled into the bunker, Dean shouting for his brother.

Sam appeared a moment later and nearly tripped over his feet when he saw Castiel. He took the stairs two at a time, clapping his hand to Cas’s back before leaning forward to hug him. The former angel was unused to this level of affection from the brothers, but he readily returned it, surprised when he realised his eyes too were damp. Hael hung back uncertainly, folding her arms and looking to the floor. He reached for her and pulled her to his side, keeping his arm around her shoulder.

“This is Hael. Hael, this is Sam Winchester.”

“The angel of kindness and creativity?” Sam asked, looking at her with a grin. Her face brightened and she nodded.

“You know of me?” She said, her voice light, but she pressed closer to Castiel’s side. Sam’s smile widened.

“There’s a whole journal about you down in the library. About the visions you’ve given creative geniuses over time…Michelangelo, Vincent van Gogh…”

Her expression softened at the mention of the artists and she looked to the floor, suddenly shy. “Vincent was a very talented man,” she said softly. Castiel smiled and pushed her toward Sam, who was happy to lead her down the stairs, talking animatedly about the classical artists she had known. Cas turned back to Dean, who had gone quiet.

“Where have you been?” He demanded. The earlier joy had vanished from Dean, and now he was giving him a considering frown.

Cas paused. “Perhaps this is a conversation best left for another time.”

“No, now.”

He allowed himself to be pulled down to the kitchen and pushed into a seat. Dean sat across from him and clasped his hands together, a gesture Cas had come to associate with nervousness. He looked away.

“The first few weeks were hard, Dean. I was without grace or wings. I had no way of contacting you. I was…disorientated, coming to terms with humanity. I found Hael wandering the roadside, attuned to our siblings, weeping for hers and their loss. I took her with me to the community I found, a small underground gathering of people. For several days we stayed there. Hael was almost mad with fear and pain, and I…things were not easy for us.”

Dean stared down at the tabletop. “Go on.”

“I told Hael what had happened in the barest detail, taught her how to navigate humanity. The homeless men taught us how to steal a car and Hael proved herself an adequate pickpocket. We drove up from south Colorado…it took several weeks. We did not know the way. Or how being a human would limit me. Today we pushed ourselves to cross the border and get to Lebanon, but we were making slow time before that.”

“What the hell happened, dude? I was with Sammy in the church and suddenly…the angels. They were falling. And I was praying and praying to you, but nothing came of it.” Dean swallowed, staring at him. “We tried to summon you a few days ago, but it didn’t work. That’s why we thought you were dead.”

“Metatron tricked me, cut out my grace. I…I am human, Dean.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said roughly. “You okay?”

“Much better now that I have found you.”

Kevin shuffled into the kitchen, ignoring the two of them in favour of the fridge, digging through it for a few moments. He kicked it shut behind him, stuffing a leftover piece of pie into his mouth. He was halfway back to the door when Dean cleared his throat. He turned back with a questioning face and saw Cas.

“Holy shit,” he said with a mouthful of food. Cas chuckled. Kevin swallowed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Cas, holy shit.”

“Hello, Kevin,” he said warmly. The prophet was wide-eyed, staring at him as though he’d seen a ghost.

“I thought you were dead.”

“I heard. I’m sorry to have left you all unknowing where I was.” Cas’s gaze returned to Dean, his smile dropping. Kevin looked between the two of them and took a step towards the door.

“The two of you probably have stuff to work out. I’m going to talk to Sam about this book.”

“Go say hi to Hael! AND BE NICE!” Dean yelled to the boy’s retreating back. He rolled his eyes and huffed. “Cas, honestly, I’m sorry I ever called you out on your social skills. That kid is so awkward sometimes it kills me.”

“I should hope not literally,” Cas said gravely. “I wouldn’t want to drag you out of Hell again.”

The side of Dean’s mouth quirked up. “Was that a joke?”

“No, I am quite serious,” Cas continued, but the beginnings of a smile pulled at his face. “Last time wasn’t much fun. It was too warm down there for my taste.”

Dean stood then, walking out and gesturing for the other man to follow him. Castiel pushed himself up and walked after him, looking around the bunker. Small things were different since the last time he’d been there. The boys had gained two mismatching grey couches and a framed picture of Sam and Charlie hung on the wall, pulling faces at the camera. Cas smiled and paused by it, tilting his head.

“Sam, I’m taking Cas into town to get him and the angel some clothes. Keep an eye on things, okay?”

“We’re going to the store?” Cas asked as Sam replied with, “What do you mean keep an eye on things?”

“Fine, come with us, whatever.” Dean shrugged. Sam got up and looked back to where Kevin was talking to Hael as Dean dragged Cas away.

“Kevin, stay with Hael, okay? Teach her some human stuff while we’re out.”

Kevin gave an unimpressed glare to the three men walking away before turning back to the angel. She tilted her head as he considered her, narrowing her cool blue eyes. It was the kind of stare that terrified him a little bit almost like she was looking into his soul. It occurred to him she probably was. He coughed into his hand and looked away.

“Human stuff. Right. You ever heard of Dungeons and Dragons?”

“No,” she said, head tilt deepening. “What is it?”

“Yeah, well, you’re about to find out.”


	4. The Demons

Their sitting room had not developed much beyond the décor left by the Men of Letters before the bunker’s abandonment. As Castiel had noted, the boys had acquired a pair of grey couches, though they were not of the same set, and a couple of framed photographs were left around. Other than that, it was the same drab concrete setup of the library, with far less shelves of books. Sam was quite happy to leave it as such – the bunker, for him, was not _home_. It was a base. Somewhere to keep their gear between hunts.

Dean did not see eye to eye with him on this.

Now that Cas was well-rested and with a full wardrobe, Dean wanted to start on making the bunker a little more homely. It was the place he slept and cooked and where his family was, and if that didn’t make it home, he didn’t know what would.

Sam seemed to need more concrete evidence. So, today was the day Dean decided to go down to the thrift store and get some stuff. He wasn’t sure what stuff, but what their home was missing was stuff – the kinds of odds and ends that were collected over the years. He hadn’t lived in a home like that since he was four years old, but remembering what it was like to live somewhere crammed full of collected things (his mother’s skull mug was his favourite as a child) made him want for that again.

So he bundled Cas up in two sweaters and some jeans and shoved him into the back of the car. Kevin soon joined him with Hael in the middle, wearing a shirt and shorts. She apparently didn’t feel the temperature. When he had asked her if she needed a jacket or something, she had stared from him to her arms before shaking her head. He left it at that.

Sam stared out of the window with a stony glare, having had an argument with Dean before they left. This was a waste of time that could be used to catalogue the library or search for angelic or demonic activity. Instead, he was sitting in the front seat of the Impala with Dean singing Bon Jovi at the top of his lungs, the three sitting in the back completely silent. When they pulled into SmithCenter – not a long drive, only twenty minutes – he had grown increasingly pissed. So he snapped, “I’m going to look around,” and slammed the door behind him.

Dean gestured for Kevin to follow him before turning in his seat to look at the two fallen angels. They stared at him with identical expressions. Two pairs of baby blues studied him intently until Castiel broke the silence with, “Are we going anywhere, Dean?”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on.” The three of them got out of the car. Dean and Cas both stretched out their limbs while Hael looked at a flowerbed of wilted tulips. She reached over and touched them gently. The flowers brightened, perking up and blooming slowly. Dean quickly grabbed her hand and pulled the two angels away, glancing around to check if anyone had seen. Luckily, people were too busy to notice, barely paying any attention to the single lot of bright flowers.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t stand to see them so. They are beautiful creations,” she told him quite seriously. He nodded and tried to relax.

They entered a large, warehouse-like shop, stuffed with shelves of secondhand items. The week before Dean and Cas had scoured the racks for some cheap clothing Hael could wear. They had returned triumphant after guessing at her size (she was a ten or twelve) with armfuls of jeans and shorts and shirts, including the oversized ACDC shirt she was currently wearing.  At first she had protested, but as time wore on and her grace dimmed increasingly so, she had come to embrace her newfound humanity. Somewhat.

There were still a few creepy angelic things she could do. Teleporting, obviously, was out, but simple things – healing, causing flowers to bloom, a vague sense of telepathy and telekinesis – were still very much her area. As she walked down the aisles of the store, looking over item after item, Dean found he had to resist the urge to follow her and ensure she was behaving perfectly human.

“Should we get a television?” Castiel asked, staring up at the wall of televisions, computers and ancient video players. The TVs ranged from mid-sixties style up to the late nineties. Dean doubted many of them were in working condition. The one nearest to him, a grey box-like machine, appeared to be missing its power cord. The one beside it, a rather squat black television, seemed to be decent enough.

“Hey, lady,” he called to the girl behind the counter, several metres away. “This TV work?”

She shrugged and snapped her bubble gum, chewing slowly before replying. “Dunno. Feel free to check it, though.”

The two men hefted the weight of the television between them and carried it over to the counter, where the girl reached over and grabbed the power cord, plugging it in and flicking the switch. She leaned back and chewed her gum in an obnoxiously loud way as Dean pried the remote from where it had been taped to the top of the TV and hit the power button.

It buzzed to life, giving them screen snow and the familiar sound of static. That was good enough for Dean. He turned it off and unplugged it, nodding to the girl. “How much?”

“Forty. Doubt you’ll be able to get many channels on it, though. Everything’s digital these days.”

He counted out the bills and handed them to her. He had a feeling that, once hooked up to the bunker, it would work. The bunker had a small satellite room hidden away under the stairs that seemed to be able to pick up any signal – even those that wouldn’t have been invented back when it was installed. The superior technology was just one of the perks the Men of Letters bunker offered.

They carried it out to the Impala, dropping it on the floor in the back, behind the driver’s seat. “Hael can have a leg rest,” Dean joked, then froze before asking, “Cas, where’s Hael?”

“I believe we left her in the store.”

They wandered back in and found her in what the scrappy handwritten sign claimed was the ‘books and games’ section. She had an armful of books and was browsing the puzzles that lined the shelves before picking up a still plastic-wrapped box that contained a 1000 piece puzzle. She looked up to Dean with wide eyes and gestured to the books and puzzle. “May I have them?”

“Yeah, give them here,” Dean said, taking half the book pile. Cas took the puzzle and she clutched the remaining books to her chest. As they walked back over to the counter, he glanced at the titles of the books he was carrying. She’d managed to nab a boxset of the _Twilight_ books, which made him roll his eyes, but on top of that was both _The Hunger Games_ and _The Great Gatsby._ He took that as proof enough the girl did have a half-decent taste in books.

But _Twilight_ , seriously.

“Why d’you want these?” He asked as they dropped the books down and he pulled out his wallet. She looked over them and gave him a small smile.

“I inspired creativity in many artists that prayed for assistance…I recognise some names. I wish to see what became of their works. In later years, of course, it was harder to find the time given the Apocalypse and the War…but there were still some.” Her smile widened as she looked down a dog-eared copy of a book he’d never heard of. “And while I may not have had influence on some of these, I still wish to read them. Humankind are great storytellers.”

Dean glanced at Cas, who was very pointedly making no comment at her words, in spite of their similarity to what Metatron had said to them. He shrugged and paid, taking them out to the car to dump in on top of the television. He looked up and down the street crammed full of shops before spotting an auto repair shop. He waved for the two of them to follow him with a grin. “Come on.”

* * *

 

Sticking with Sam’s long stride was hard, but Kevin managed, more out of desperation than Dean’s demand he stick with Sam. He hadn’t left the bunker – not properly, not alone – in well over four months. It had made him just a touch paranoid, and he wished he had a demon-killing knife at his side like he knew the younger brother walking in front of him had.

“Could you slow down?” He asked, managing at last to match stride with the older man. Sam said nothing but his speed dropped mildly, enough that Kevin could walk comfortably beside him. They had stopped at none of the shops in this street, though he had spotted a games shop he wanted to look in later. He sort of missed having an Xbox around.

Sam stopped in front of a store that advertised a special on men’s shoes. He looked down at Kevin’s worn and scuffed sneakers before pulling him inside.

“You need boots,” He explained, looking over the rows of shoes. There were dress shoes, running shoes, several pairs of particularly ugly sandals, and boots. Sam grabbed a black pair that laced up and passed them to him to try on.

Kevin looked down at the shoes that were not unlike the ones Sam and Dean wore before looking back to the younger brother. Bluntly, he asked, “Are you going to teach me how to hunt?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Why?”

Sam pressed his lips into a thin, hard line and considered him for a moment before replying. “You need to know how to defend yourself against what’s out there – beyond the basics. Beyond salt and holy water.”

“Do I get a choice?” Kevin returned the boots to their box and tucked it under his arm. They fit perfectly. Somehow that didn’t surprise him.

“No.” Sam grinned and took the box from him, walking up to the salesman and striking up a conversation about the weather. Kevin leaned against the wall by the door, but he listened to the kind of things being asked, and realised Sam was casing the town. “Kind of weird storm that was the other day,” the man commented as he accepted his receipt and bag.

The salesman frowned and shook his head. “The darnedest thing, isn’t it? Having lovely weather, for this time of year, at least, and then four storms in two days. I’d put it down to climate change, but something about that wind just didn’t sit right with me. And Jefferson – he lives out by Cedar – told me the other day that some damn kids or something had spooked three of his cows dead.”

Sam nodded in agreement and bid the man goodbye. As they walked out one arm slipped around Kevin’s shoulders and pulled the boy closer. His voice dropped to something just above a whisper as he said “Stay close. Keep your eyes out. There’s demonic activity in the area, and we need to be careful. We need to meet back up with Dean and get out of here, alright?”

Kevin shadowed him as they made their way back to the car, glancing around every so often for any hint of black or red eyes. His heart was pounding and his chest felt tight, and there seemed to be something going on with his throat and eyes – the scratchy, kind of raw feeling one gets before crying. He took several deep breaths that did little to calm him down. “Sam?”

“We’re nearly there, Kevin, we’ll get you and the angel back home. Dean and I will come back and take care of it.”

As the Impala came in sight, Kevin dumped his purchase on the empty portion of floor and slid across the seat, buckling himself in to the middle. He could see Sam leaning against the front of the car, dialling into his phone. He looked around again, staring hard at anyone who walked past. As far as he was concerned, everyone and anyone was a demon, and he knew that as the prophet he would be valuable for anyone trying to take the power that Hell had lost when Crowley had vanished. Or worse – they would torture him to find out where Crowley was.

The doors opened and Castiel and Hael took their seats either side of him. His heart pounded against his chest as he looked between them.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked, his voice deep and gravelly as always. Kevin nodded quickly, in a sudden up and down motion that looked almost unnatural. Green eyes met his in the rearview mirror and from the driver’s seat he heard an audible sigh.

“Sammy, Cas, switch places.”

They did so wordlessly, neither making any comment as the prophet closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands. Sam pulled out his revolver and kept it in one hand, the other resting on Kevin’s shoulder. It wasn’t the first time Kevin had had a panic attack but it _was_ the first in a while. 

“Breathe,” Sam reminded him gently. Hael reached over and took his hand, her long fingers coming up to brush against the side of his face. He turned to look at her and blinked as a wave of calm washed over him. The angel smiled and made herself comfortable, releasing his hand.

At the bunker they separated, the two angels going with Kevin, the brothers checking they had all their hunting things in order before promising to be back soon. Omens were hardly a surprise at this point, given how long the King of Hell had been chained up in their dungeon. He still stubbornly refused to speak to either them. They had left him there to rot in his own misery until he changed his mind.

After stopping at a roadside to pull out a map of the area and mark on it where each omen had appeared, drawing clear and straight lines across the paper, they found the central point – a warehouse not far outside the limits of Center. Sam huffed and folded the map hastily, stuffing it into his pocket and looking to his brother for further instruction.

“Guns blazing?” He asked. Dean nodded, grabbing a lot of ammunition for his sidearm out of the Impala’s trunk, keeping his holster open and hanging loosely at his side.

“You got the knife?” Dean pulled open the door roughly, a sour look passing between them. Sam lifted his jacket to show where it was strapped to his body.

The drive was silent, tension increasing. Neither knew what to expect upon entering the warehouse – what black-eyed face, familiar or unfamiliar, would be awaiting them. The way he saw it, they’d really done the demons a favour, taking away their oppressive and dangerous leader, giving them the freedom to…well, to cause whatever mayhem and destruction they liked, but the Winchesters were going to kill them _anyway_. At the least those stupid, twisted souls could be free while they died.

He knew better than to voice these thoughts to Dean. His brother would think he was slipping back into his pre-Apocalypse role, if he sympathised with demons.

The lot was deserted when they pulled up. The only living thing that could be seen was a lone bee buzzing halfheartedly at the weeds that had grown through the cracked concrete, swaying lightly in the breeze. A chill surprised him, working its way down his spine and making his skin crawl. Wordlessly Sam gestured to his brother, pulling out the knife and gripping it in one hand, keeping it close to his body.

Dean kicked open the wooden door with enough force to make one of the hinges snap off completely. He gun was drawn as he cast a hawklike glare over the room inside, eyes taking a moment to adjust to the lack of light.

“Oh, look,” a taunting voice greeted them. “Winchesters.”

The voice belonged to a slender man with fine features who grinned at them with white, white teeth. His predatory smile widened and he turned his head to consider them, the movement too quick and sharp to be natural. After a moment his eyes turned to the colour of rubies and he laughed.

His laughter was joined by a blonde, black-eyed woman who was nowhere near as unnerving as her partner. Her grin was more lascivious as she looked the two men up and down.

“I want the short one,” she giggled. “He’s pretty.”

Dean’s grip on the gun in his hand tightened and he went rigid, teeth clamping down into a grimace. The blonde’s smile fell from her face and her eyes narrowed, as though she had suddenly become far more hostile. “The only thing in this room that can kill me is that knife in your brother’s hand, pretty boy,” she said, sliding off the table she perched on. She crossed the room with slow, careful steps, heels clicking on the concrete. Dean glared as she stopped just three feet in front of him, crossing her arms and considering him.

“They say the two of you saved the world, once.”

“Twice,” Dean corrected, smiling his _fuck you_ smile. “Three times if you’re counting Mother of All’s little bid with the Alphas.”

The demon snorted and waved for the Crossroads demon to join her. Sam was confused about the power balance in the room but made no comment, his movement mirroring the other demon’s as he came to stand at Dean’s side.

“We can do this the hard way, or the harder way,” the red-eyed demon smiled. “Tell us where Crowley is, or we kill you.”

Sam laughed, but it was hollow, without mirth. Both demons flinched at the sound.

“Or,” Dean replied, gesturing with his gun at the two of them. “Or, now here’s an idea – we could not do that, kill the two of you, and be on our merry way.”

The blonde needed no further invitation to lunge at him, teeth bared like a wild animal. Dean sidestepped the move and threw her down, taking the knife Sam tossed to him to slam it between her shoulder blades. There was the briefest of flickers as the life died out of her before he was ripping the knife from her skin and spinning to face Sam and the crossroads demon currently brawling. Without a leader demons were weak, disorganised, almost stupid, a far cry from the hellish (if you’ll excuse the pun) army they’d once been.

Dean was waiting for an opening to knife the bastard, but Sam flipped him, straddling the demon and pinning him down. The skin of his arms was glowing as the demon struggled beneath him, hissing and clawing at where Sam’s hands were in a death grip around his throat.

Sam held out one hand for the knife. Dean handed it to him and watched as he spun the handle, pushing the blade not into the demon’s throat but into the palm of his own hand. Before he could cry out, his brother smashed his bloody palm into the creature’s mouth.

There was a flash of light that wiped everything from his vision and knocked him on his damn ass, but that could have just been from shock. He blinked until the lights swimming before his eyes cleared, and as soon as he was able he was scrambling to his feet, stumbling his way over to his brother. Sam was slumped over the demon, trembling from head to toe. Just as Dean reached him he fell, only just caught by his brother’s hand. Dean tugged him away, barely glancing at the burnt-out shell that was left of the demon, pulling Sam to his chest and checking him over.

“Little brother, the hell did you just do?”

Sam coughed weakly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Killed a demon with the power of Heaven?”

He pulled him to his feet, shouldering most of his weight. The skin around Sam’s wrists was still aglow. Dean pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wrapped it around the wound in his brother’s palm, tying it tight to stem the bleeding. Apprehension rose in his chest as he was forced to mostly carry the other man back to the Impala. This feeling, this scene, was all too familiar – reminiscent of the church. Sam had been out for days post-church, and the most terrifying part of it all was that they still didn’t know what the Trials had done to him.

Sam wilted in the car, leaning into the window and staring at nothing until his eyelids drooped and he fell into a kind of trance. Dean had to keep reminding himself to breathe, because it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen this before, and Sammy had pulled through that just fine, and it was all going to be okay, and he realised he was hyperventilating. When they pulled up in front of the bunker he slammed on the brakes and left the engine running, hurrying to pull Sam from the Impala and get him inside. Cas met him at the door and took on half of Sam’s weight so they could carry him down the stairs.

“What happened?” He asked in a gravelly tone, checking the taller brother over for injury as they deposited him in bed.

“We got into a fight with a couple of demons. His arms went all…” Dean gestured down to the fading glow in his brother’s arms, “Jesus Christ Superstar and he burned a demon out of it’s shell.”

Castiel made no comment, but a look passed between them, giving Dean the sense that Cas knew something he wasn’t sharing in that moment. Instead of asking, he instead went down the kitchen to dampen a cloth; last time Sam had run a fever for a day or two. As he wrung it out in the sink, squeezing the cloth like it was the source of all his troubles, the former angel came up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Dean.”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Let us help with Sam. Kevin said that last time…you need rest too, Dean.”

Dean turned and didn’t meet the eyes of the other man, knowing Cas would be giving him that big blue-eyed puppy stare. Sure enough when he glanced up the man’s eyes were wide and imploring him to speak. Behind him the angel girl and prophet were standing in the doorway, arms folded. Their concern for him was unwarranted, and more importantly, unneeded. “I’m fine.”

He pushed past and made his way back down the hall to Sammy’s room, Cas on his heels. He had a feeling the angel ( _man_ , Cas was a man now) wasn’t going to let this go. “You just gonna stare at me, or are you going to help?”

Castiel remained silent for several moments before turning and walking away. He returned with a chair, placing it at Sam’s bedside for Dean to sit on, and moved away again. Dean fell into the chair and wiped down his unconscious brother’s face with the cloth he still clutched in his hand. He managed not to jump when a voice came from the doorway.

“I’ll make you something to eat and bring it here, and ask Kevin to look over the tablets and see if there’s anything…that could help.”

“Fine, Cas.”

Cas hesitated. “It’s not a crime to allow people to help you.”

He got no reply. Stepping outside, he closed the door behind him and walked back down to the kitchen. When he had seized Dean’s soul from Hell (it felt so long ago, now) he had come to know it intimately, and in his companionship with the man in the years since he became familiar with Dean’s nuances. He knew – as did Kevin, no doubt – that Dean would do anything for his brother. He had ended up in Hell by saving his brother’s life to begin with. He would toss aside his own self-care and wellbeing in order to save Sam.

Cas would do the same to save Dean, if he’d let him.


	5. The Huntress

In the short amount of time she had lived with them, the Winchester family had become a very familiar asset to Hael’s life and, dare she think it, her welfare as a human. They weren’t big on talking, but they were happy to speak with her if she asked, and had provided her with a room of her own, and even canvases and paintbrushes when Castiel had mentioned in passing she enjoying drawing and painting. So, though her grace still dimmed and her power weakened the longer she was cut off from Heaven, she was happy. She pushed down the feelings of guilt that came from the thought that her siblings had not been so lucky after the Fall; some, she knew, had died, and others still would be hunting for vessels, or going mad within a vessel that was to become their body, for as long as they were unable to return to Heaven, they were going to become human. It was as though her grace was a shining connection between her and the heavenly powers above, and the fall had been as though someone had slammed a door on it; it was still there, some of it was still able to shine through the cracks into her, but she could not enjoy the full strength of it.

Moodily she returned to her paintings, dabbing a brush onto a section of her palette. Her art had begun almost photorealistic, but Kevin had provided her with a stack of books on art theory, sheepishly telling her she may enjoy browsing through them. And she had; they had taught her many things she had only been vaguely aware of in the past. Colour composition, layout. And while her paintings still retained their accuracy, they were now more artistically put together. This, she liked.

As the angel began applying paint to a small square of white in the bottom left-hand corner of her current work, she became dimly aware of arguing. It was not unexpected. The oldest Winchester boy, Dean, was viciously protective of the younger one, who remained in a hazy state, slipping in and out of coma. She had, at Castiel’s request, looked over him, but there was nothing she could do. He required healing well above her capabilities, and she got a sense that if her grace came in contact with the power surging through that fragile boy’s veins, it would break. Dean had not been pleased to hear that, but there was nothing she could do without endangering herself, and subsequently anyone else in the room. He hadn’t seemed to care, but she understood his determination. There was little she wouldn’t do to keep some of her siblings safe – Samandriel had been created just minutes after her, and the two of them had been close. It was not uncommon within siblings that came into being close together. She remembered two older angels, Hester and Inias, who had shared a relationship much like hers and Samandriel’s. Or even Michael, Lucifer, Gabriel and Raphael – the first four. That was how angels worked.

She knew Samandriel had died in service to Heaven’s intelligence division. Jacobi had come to tell her personally, offer his condolences, but he refused to tell her how. She accepted that. The filth walking the earth, the demonic kind, were likely to have killed her brother. Revenge could be had eventually – it wasn’t like demons were mortal. Neither was she, any more.

The arguing grew louder, more intense, and the sound of a slamming door rang through the bunker. Moments later the sound came again, and with a sigh she set her paints aside. There was no way she could work in this racket. After several seconds of nothing, she remembered with a jolt she couldn’t just vanish away. No wings. They’d burned up in the fall.

Hael walked out of her room, then, made her way down the hall to the source of the arguing. Sure enough, Dean and Castiel were going at it, throwing sharp words like knives across the room. She could tell, both from the look on Castiel’s face and the buzz in Dean’s soul, they had each said things they regretted, but still they yelled, and still they fought. There was movement behind her; she glanced to see the third Winchester boy, Kevin, rubbing the back of his neck and frowning.

“Cas found a hunt. Dean won’t let him go on his own and there aren’t any hunters in the area for it.”

She nodded, returning her gaze to the argument before her. Dean’s gestures were growing more aggressive. If he raised a hand to Castiel, she would incapacitate him.

“Fine, Dean!” Castiel growled, throwing down his hunting bag. “I won’t go!”

“Good!” Dean barked in reply, storming away. Hael glared as he brushed past her. Winchesters were an insolent lot.

Her brother’s breathing was heavy as he gripped the table, trying to compose himself. She approached him carefully, Kevin still hovering behind her. It was definitely not the first fight they’d heard over the past few days, and likely wouldn’t be the last. She reached over and brushed back his hair, sending a wave of calm through him. He pulled away.

“Don’t, Hael,” He said sharply. He reached over and lifted the hunting bag by its straps, slinging it over his shoulder. “I will return later.”

“Castiel,” She began, just as Kevin said, “Cas, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It will be fine.” Castiel was trying to sound reassuring, but his hands were trembling, with anger, she thought, anger at Dean Winchester. “There’s a poltergeist in the next state over. It’s nothing more than a salt and burn, it will take me a day. If that.”

“I am going with you,” She replied, indignant. He smiled at her, eyes tired. He was pushing his human body to its limits. One hand cupped her cheek as he looked at her fondly.

“Little sister, I need you to stay and care for Sam and Dean Winchester. They are hopeless without an angel on their shoulder.”

His exasperation, and the other human emotions currently humming through him, was unfamiliar to her, but the love in his statement she understood. She nodded and stepped away, her face devoid of anything that could indicate her confusion. Castiel loved his Winchesters. He needed her to watch over them while he was gone. This, she could do.

“I’m coming with you, Cas.” Kevin had taken both a shotgun and small backpack and seemed quite determined to follow the ex-angel. Cas shook his head, gesturing for Kevin to sit.

“You, too, must stay here. Dean will listen to you. I promise you both I will return as soon as the poltergeist is taken care of.”

He adjusted the bag so it sat comfortably on his shoulders before returning his gaze to his younger sibling and prophet. With a fond smile, he began to climb the stairs up to the entrance of the bunker, looking back only to wave to them. Apprehension eased its way through Hael’s body, and she tore her eyes away from him, frowning into the distance. When she looked back, Kevin had left and Castiel was gone, and it was just her, alone, standing in the room, waiting for something she didn't comprehend.

* * *

 The engine of his stolen car rumbled delightfully as Cas pulled onto the highway. It was another hour or so until he’d be in Oklahoma, but from there it was only a short drive. He’d arrive in the town by nightfall and could probably scope out the hunt before booking a room in a motel and staying there to organise himself. Poltergeists, he knew, were tricky, but they were essentially ghosts and burning the remains would be the only way to take it out.

Unless, of course, it had been cremated. He had high hopes it had not.

The phone that had been given to him by Dean had begun to blast out a jangle of ACDC within the past half-hour, meaning Dean had discovered his disobedience. It didn’t bother him, it really didn’t, except for the guilt that crept through him whenever the phone began again. He was Dean’s angel, but that didn’t mean he had to listen to every word he was told. He was a machine of Heaven, a creation of the Lord, a soldier, and right now there was a small war going on. Every instinct was telling him to fight. So he wouldn’t listen to Dean, because Dean wanted for him to stay and be quiet, be seen and not heard. The _anger_ that burned within him at the thought of it. He was nobody’s pet. He was Castiel, a human, a hunter. More than what Heaven had planned for him. It was second nature for him to protect humankind, and there were people in danger. He couldn’t ignore that.

After crossing the state lines his phone began to ring again, but it wasn’t Dean’s ringtone. He pulled over to the side of the road and examined the screen. Kevin. Uneasily he answered it and brought the phone to his ear.

Before he could speak, Dean’s voice came through the other end. “Castiel, you lying fuck-”

He didn’t bother listening to any more of the tirade on the other end, hanging up and tossing the phone aside. Dean would be furious. He found he didn’t care.

Cas pulled off the highway and onto the main road of Huntsville, Oklahoma. The sign that greeted him was a jaunty blue, saying that _everyone_ was welcome here, and gave the town a population of 20000. Its enthusiasm amused him, the side of his mouth quirking into a surprised smile. Humankind never ceased to entertain.

After booking into a room at the first motel he found, Cas dumped his bags inside and changed into his fed suit, digging around the glove compartment for the FBI badge that he’d thrown in before leaving. The haunting was in a house approximately five miles away, and had been the cause of at least one serious injury a year for the past three years – that meant the death was recent. He’d done some googling (the internet was a true joy, it was, and he was so thankful Kevin had taught him its uses) and found the teenage son of a pastor had been murdered in the house four years ago. The remains were, apparently, in a graveyard off Main. But he had a gut feeling he should check out the house before doing anything; perhaps the spirit could be reasoned into moving on.

To his surprise upon arriving at the house, a FOR SALE sign dominated the front yard, the front door wide open. He glanced down at his badge before stuffing it back into the compartment it had been pulled from. It would seem there was an open house.

He stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him. He’d been glad when Dean had agreed they should keep the second car, given that he and Sam would be taking the Impala away on hunts. And it was a nice car in spite of the words Dean used to refer to it. It wasn’t the nicest looking car, and it had backfired on him once or twice, but it was a car, and that was all he really cared about.

Two girls came up behind him on the footpath, talking quietly between themselves. A boy trailed behind them at a distance. He glanced to them and the boy, assessing the situation, trying to determine if there was any threat there. The three of them seemed relaxed, uncaring. He left them be and walked towards the house. They followed.

“Welcome!” A bright, cheery man greeted them in the doorway. “I’m Edward Wren, I’m the real estate agent for the Chandlers! Feel free to look around and just come and get me if you need anything! Is this your daughter?”

“Hello,” said the dark-haired girl before he had a chance to reply. “I’m Christina Walker, this is my father Aidan.”

He was about to protest until, as she shook the man’s hand, she subtly tugged up the side of her shirt to show the pentagram inked into her skin. Cas immediately turned back to the real estate agent and smiled.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he shook the man’s hand firmly. “Christina, David,” he turned to the boy who had been trailing behind them. “Come along. Let’s see if the house is one your mother will agree to.”

The young man laughed awkwardly and punched the girl claiming to be Christine on the arm. “You know what mom’s like, Dad, right Chris?”

“Right,” the girl said brightly. They moved along, the second girl following behind them with a smile to the real estate agent and a claim of looking for her first house. As soon as they were out of earshot of the man, he turned to the three of them, his face grim.

“This is our hunt, old man,” the second girl said, flashing him a grin. “You can leave now.”

He took the three of them in, from the short, dark-haired girl, to the taller girl with her tight muddle of curls atop her heads, over to the gangly boy who was looking between them awkwardly. They were quite young for hunters, but he knew Dean had started in childhood, and if they had been raised in the life – well, that was the way it was.

“Let me introduce myself,” He said calmly. “My name is Castiel.”

“Krissy Chambers,” the shorter girl grinned at him. “And this is Josephine Barnes and Aidan Linetti.”

“You’re not one of those angels, are you,” Aidan shot at him, eyes narrowed into a distrusting glare. Cas gave him a level look and shook his head no, taking little comfort in the fact that it wasn’t a lie. He looked between the three of them carefully.

“How did you know I was a hunter?” He asked them, exuding calm and control. Krissy glanced to Aidan.

“Aidan saw the charm hanging from your mirror, the pentagram and sage. We figured only witches and hunters would bother with something like that, and given you were coming to a house with a known haunting…” Krissy shrugged. “But really, old man, we’re good. We’ve got this.”

“Are you saying you’d like me to leave?” He asked. He wasn’t comfortable with that idea.

“Pretty much,” Josephine said, folding her arms. “We’ll let you know if we need any help.”

Before he could reply, his phone began to blast ACDC again. Cas rolled his eyes and pulled it out, holding up a finger as he answered. “Dean, I am _busy,_ this can wait.”

“No it can’t wait, Casti-“

He hung up again and pocketed the phone. The three were looking at him with guarded stares. Krissy folded her arms and stepped forward. “Was that Dean Winchester?”

“Yes,” he replied, pulling the EMF meter from his pocket and flicking it on. “He and I are currently in disagreement. Now, are we going to scope this out?”

“Yeah, sure,” Josephine said, just as Krissy answered with “No way in hell.”

The two of them spent a moment in a silent battle of wills before Krissy shrugged and pulled out her phone. “I’m calling Dean.”

“I assure you that’s not necessary.” Cas guided the EMF meter toward the fireplace, where it whistled softly, but didn’t give him a reading worth noting. He glanced to the stairs. The murdered had occurred upstairs, he knew, but supernatural activity had occurred in every room of the house. Undoubtedly the reading would be stronger up there.

Krissy was talking quietly behind him on her phone as Edward Wren walked back in, grinning broadly. “How are we finding it? What do we think?”

“It’s lovely,” Josephine gushed, grasping his suited arm. “The work around the arches is just gorgeous. Is upstairs just as nice?”

“Of course,” Wren seemed to brighten further. He guided her towards the stairs, talking loudly about the neighbourhood and the nearby schools. Cas saw her slip a meter of her own out of her pocket and flick it on as she spoke animatedly about her apparent future family. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen, but the makeup and casual dress she was wearing served to make her look in her early twenties. It was enough to fool the real estate agent, at least.

Krissy hung up the phone and regarded Cas with raised eyebrows. He gave her a measured look, knowing the things Dean had said would likely have not been in his favour. Rather than that, she said, “Dean told me to tell you that because the three of us were here, you could go home.”

“Dean should know that I have no intention of doing so. However, I will not infringe on your work any longer, if you don’t have any use of me. Call Dean if you require my assistance at any point. Otherwise, you can find me at the Paradise Motel, room four.” Cas tried for a smile, stuffing the EMF meter in his suit pocket and walking out of the house. He had been genuine. He would stay in town for a day or two after they wrapped up the hunt, just to ensure it all gone smoothly. Besides, he needed a day or two (perhaps a week) away from the endless source of frustration that was Dean Winchester.

* * *

 There was five thunderous knocks on his motel room door three hours later. Even before he opened the door Castiel had a feeling he knew who was on the other side, and he was fairly sure it wouldn’t be the three teenage hunters.

“Dean,” he said calmly to the seething man outside. “How nice of you to join me.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dean snarled. “Do you think you can just walk out like that?”

Castiel stepped aside and gestured for Dean to enter. The glare Dean affixed him with was somewhere between shocked and angry; nevertheless, he stepped inside, and allowed the door to close behind him.

“I do, actually, think I can just walk out like that. I may have worked hard to get back to you, Dean, but –“

“Are you kidding me?!” Dean exclaimed. “Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack? Sam’s sick and you walk out on me. You left. You left me with Kevin, who does nothing but _follow_ me, and your little sister walked straight of the Uncanny fucking Valley and does nothing but stare at me, she’s creepier than early days you, give her some goddamn lessons in humanity, Cas this isn’t fucking funny _why are you laughing._ ”

Cas hid his smile with one hand, taking a breath to still the laughter. Dean’s anger didn’t dissipate but instead grew stronger; he threw his hands in the air and sat on the bed. Cas’s mood sobered; he came over and joined Dean, careful to keep some space between them.

“Please understand, Dean. This isn’t about abandoning you.”

 “Then what is it about?” Dean sounded tired, suddenly, tired of arguing. Tired of Cas. After a moment, the ex-angel stepped back and looked away.

“Purpose,” He said carefully. “Cause.”

“Reason to get up in the morning,” Dean finished the sentiment. “Still taking Meg’s life lessons to heart?”

“She was not the devil you made her out to be.”

“Yeah, the whole _being a demon_ thing had nothing to do with it.”

“You – you have such a one track mind,” Cas spat, turning away from him. “Everything is black and white to you. Guess what, Dean?!”

He whirled around to glare at the other man. There was something in his eyes that made Dean question if all his grace was really gone.

“The world isn’t split into good and evil the way you think it is. There are shades of grey.”

“Yeah, fifty of them,” Dean muttered. The joke was ill-timed; Cas stepped forward with clenched hands. He snorted, looking up into his blue eyes. “You gonna hit me, Castiel?”

“I’ve half a mind to, Dean. That’s how you solve all your problems, isn’t it? Hit it until it goes away? Stab it? Burn it?”

Dean’s face twisted. “That’s not fair. You _left_.”

“You’re not fair!” Cas yelled back, his temper just this close to boiling over. The argument bordered on childish, he knew, but he was human now, human without a childhood. He deserved to lose his temper at the most infuriating member of humanity. “I am human now! I need a life outside of you and your brother!”

Dean went to reply but was interrupted by a frenzied knocking upon the door. The two men broke off their argument to stare at the door incredulously; there was no one that could have followed them here, and the chances of anyone wanting them were – well, they were slim.

Cas crossed the room and opened the door, stepping back and letting it hang open in shock of the vision that greeted him on the other side. “Dean,” he said hoarsely, and within moments Dean had crossed the room and torn open the door the rest of the way so he could see.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Krissy sobbed, stumbling inside with Josephine’s limp body dangling from her arms. The two of them were covered in blood that was still flowing in a steady stream from Josephine’s side, blood and grime and god knew what else. Cas scrambled to grab the first aid kit from his hunting bag as Dean took the girl from Krissy’s arms, rocking her gently as he placed her on the bed. He pulled off his overshirt and balled it up, stuffing it against the wound and reaching for Krissy’s hands, getting her to hold it in place.

“What happened,” he demanded, unscrewing the cap off his hip flask as Cas returned with the kit, bandages and stitches in hand. Krissy was shaking, but he didn’t know if it was from adrenaline or shock; probably some mix of the two.

“Poltergeist,” she stammered, looking down at the blood that coated her hands. “It rushed us, it – Aidan’s dead, Dean, it just – it didn’t even look at the salt, it just-“

“It’s okay, Krissy,” Cas kneeled beside her, guiding her hands away from the wound, shooting Dean a glare. “We’ll go wash this off, Dean will take care of Josephine, it’s all going to be okay.”

As Cas took Krissy to the dingy motel bathroom, Dean gingerly pried the soaked shirt from the wound. It had slowed, but she’d lost a lot of blood, by his estimation – it was going to be touch and go, a real challenge to keep her alive until they could get her back to the bunker, back to the angel. Taking in a sharp breath, trying not to choke on the all too familiar scent of blood, he doused the wound with bourbon and began to stitch it. She cried out in pain, grabbing at his shoulder and gripping tight, digging her nails in. He ignored the pain; it wouldn’t be half of what she was feeling.

“Hey, Josie, it’s okay, just gotta stitch you up-“

“D-Dean?” She struggled to sit up, eyes unfocused. He pushed her back down.

“You’ve been hurt real bad, okay, but we’re gonna get you fixed up, okay?”

“Krissy,” She whimpered. “Where’s-“

“It’s okay,” Dean repeated, returning to the wound. She slipped back into unconsciousness moments later. He bit his lip, trying not to focus on the panic rising in his chest. He’d seen some bad hits before, but this? From a poltergeist? It was nearly fucking unimaginable. Yet here it was in the form of an eighteen-year-old girl bleeding out on a stained motel bed, losing a fuck ton of blood on the coarse blanket. He finished the stitches quickly, knowing they were nothing more than a rough way of holding her insides _in._ He hoped they’d last the three-hour journey home.

Castiel retuned with Krissy, who was still pale. The red skin on her face and neck was darkening, bruises springing up where she had been hit. She took a breath to steel herself and moved to his side, taking Josephine’s hand. “I’m coming with you,” she told him, the hysterics having faded. He nodded.

“Dean,” Cas glared at him. He ignored him, standing and throwing the first aid kit back into Cas’s hunting bag, followed closely by his flask. “Dean, you can’t take her.”

“I can and I will,” he snapped in reply. “Go bring your car up.”

“I’ll come with you, Krissy can-”

“No, you will take Josephine back to the bunker so your little sister can heal her!” Dean shouted, jabbing a finger into the former angel’s chest. Castiel looked at it for a moment, as though slowly considering something, before his gaze rose and he fixed Dean with a cold, withering stare. The hunter flinched at the sight of the unblinking blue eyes boring into his own, and the look was enough to falter him for just a moment before his resolve returned.

“Just take the kid back to the fucking bunker, Cas,” he snapped, turning and gathering up Castiel’s hunting bag, gesturing for Krissy to go to the Impala. She left the room without a word, sensing they needed to talk. “Actually, call Kevin, have him drive Hael down to Elliot Creek, meet halfway. She doesn’t have time.”

Cas pulled the teenager into his arms, cradling her gently, cautious of damaging the stitching. He looked over to the door, where Dean stood waiting. It would seem they were just going to leave without cleaning up the blood. It made the room look like a crime scene, but there was no CCTV in the building, and the only person who had seen him – the acne-ridden teenager manning the desk – wasn’t likely to talk. “If Kevin and Hael drive down to meet us at the halfway point, Sam will be alone,” he muttered.

“Sam woke up,” was the short reply. “Just go, Cas. Go. Krissy and I will take care of it.”


End file.
